I was puking over a truck fender when I saw her. Four years later, she looked exactly the way I remembered, all tan legs and long blond hair. Alcohol and ex-girlfriends are matches and gasoline, but Coors Light trumped common sense and I called her name. She looked over right as I lost my grip on the truck and sprawled in grass slick with dew and vomit. I heard laughter. I grabbed a fistful of grass to anchor myself as the sky became a kaleidoscope of stars and my thoughts skittered and bounced before finally dropping into a slot on the roulette wheel of memory.

I want a horse like that, she said, someday when we move out west. The horse was a paint, its piebald haunches rippling muscle as the cowgirl spurred it on. It was the last night of the Benton Rodeo Days, her last shot at winning the barrel race. Gravel pinged off the steel fence as the paint’s hooves scrambled for purchase coming around the last barrel. She laughed and looked down at me from her perch on the top rail, back lit by the harsh arena floodlights. She was still smiling when the security guard came up and told us to get off the fence.

Look at those bugs, she said as we climbed the bleachers. I looked up at the clouds of insects swarming the floodlights, hurling their tiny bodies against the glass. Funny how they just keep trying. Her smile faded when the floodlights morphed into the morning sun, and I awoke in the bed of my truck to the echoes of the rodeo announcer— But even the best cowboys, ladies and gentlemen, must learn when to let go.

Alex Barbolish was born and raised in Nicholson, PA. His work has appeared in Gravel,Hippocampus, Mud Season Review, and Colere, among others. This particular piece was first published in The Plume, the literary journal of Keystone College in La Plume, PA.

Brandi Kjarsgard (née Morris) grew up in Elmhurst. She’s been an artist all her life, beginning with a box of crayons and dragon drawings. After sketching countless monsters, she realized she wanted to create them on the silver screen, transforming people into wild and imaginative creatures. She is currently pursuing a career as a professional makeup artist. She is the recipient of the 2016 Ve Neill Legends of Makeup Scholarship at Cinema Makeup School. She also runs Raw Illusions Studios.

]]>https://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/05/26/autumn-nocturne-by-brandi-morris-kjarsgard/feed/0milewskia212767684_10154581923404554_972506563_nRoomie by Corinne Alice Nultonhttps://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/05/12/roomie-by-corinne-nulton/
https://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/05/12/roomie-by-corinne-nulton/#respondThu, 12 May 2016 10:00:08 +0000http://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/?p=146Continue reading Roomie by Corinne Alice Nulton]]>I like to sleep where your bed once sat
Your posters’ tape-stains and sharpie notes
Hooks from dream catchers, writers’ quotes
I swear that spot still has your scent
If I close my eyes, I can pretend
we’re college roommates again

Watching storms come through and pour
into pots aligned on slanted floors
Inch-long winter window seams
cuddled by a blow dryer for heat
A rusted lock, a broken key,
sagging boards, knob-less doors
rail-less staircase, up three floors
plugs that spark, sirens that screech,
mold that snows from higher beams
Shit, the rent’s due once again

Strangers forced into one small space
City views wrapped in spiders’ lace
Hating it, and you, and yet myself
Out of stolen scraps, you made a bookshelf
A plywood bond yet to be undone
That forged our books, our music into one
So often those years we couldn’t make rent
But laughed through favors made, money lent

“Roommate Wanted” taped to crusted—
cracked window, on the ground floor.
And that whole month I had so much room—
Your half of home, an empty, for-rent tomb.
As your parents took your things away,
I clung to traces of you in the space:
Wine stains, bent nails, chipped paint

I have a room now that’s not condemned
And I can finally, fully make the rent.
But I keep the space where your bed would’ve been
Empty. I lay there and imagine
your posters, clutter, and sharpie notes
Hooks holding dream catchers
Post-its of writes’ quotes
And you, only half a room away.

Corinne Alice Nulton lives above a flower shop in Peckville, where she keeps the scattered parts of her brain on post-its and on the dog-eared pages of dollar store notebooks. She had her play “14 Symptoms” produced at the Brick Theater’s Game Play Festival in 2014, and her ten-minute-play “Flesh” was a finalist at the Kennedy Center in 2011. She has had several short stories published in literary magazines such as Cactus Heart and Ellipses .

]]>https://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/05/12/roomie-by-corinne-nulton/feed/0milewskia2Ancestors by Elena Haberskyhttps://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/04/28/ancestors-by-elena-habersky/
https://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/04/28/ancestors-by-elena-habersky/#respondThu, 28 Apr 2016 21:15:38 +0000http://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/?p=130Continue reading Ancestors by Elena Habersky]]>As I was stepping off the bus, eager to explore the small Polish town of Płock, I ignorantly assumed someone would understand my English. It is a small shame that I carry with me, the fact that I do not speak or understand the root language of my ancestors. How hard could it be to understand “town”, or “city center”, or even the name Płock itself? It took me mere minutes and decreasing self-confidence to realize not that long. Completely lost and alone at a small bus station with no sign of city life anywhere, I began walking.

A kind gentleman ran after me and pointed me in the direction of a city bus. He did not understand what I wanted exactly, but he obviously knew I should take a bus to any direction worthwhile. So I hopped on and hoped I would notice the town or the river that I knew ran next to the town. After ten minutes and ending up at the end of the bus line right next to the local hospital, I got off pretending I knew exactly where I was going. I had no idea, so I waited for the next bus back and went in the exact direction I came from, defeated.

On a whim, I exited at a larger looking intersection and meandered my way cautiously down the street, remembering every step I took, lest I needed to retrace them. I stumbled upon more buildings and it seemed, almost suddenly, that life started springing up around me. Pharmacies, small groceries, and restaurants started dotting the streets until I noticed what looked like a city map. Success! I had finally found the quaint town square!

As the sun was shining, the fountains were running, and the colored buildings seemed to smile down upon me in their salmon pink and daisy yellow colors. I took myself to the tourist information center to try and find more detailed information from the locals. You see, I had already done some research on this city. Płock, though small and maybe not worthwhile for most tourists, runs in my veins as my paternal great grandparent lived there before he ventured courageously on a ship to America. I wanted so desperately to feel a connection to people I had only known through their old wedding photographs displayed in our living room, their serious expressions not giving way to the generous people my father and relatives spoke of so fondly.

Growing up eating pierogis, blessing Easter baskets on Holy Saturday, and passing around a tasteless wafer, or Oplatki, every Christmas Eve while wishing family members health and happiness for the upcoming year all seemed normal as a child raised in Northeastern Pennsylvania. However, after traveling and meeting new people, even from other parts of Pennsylvania, I realized they did not have Eastern European populations surrounding them growing up and therefore did not have a deep knowledge of their culture. This was saddening for them, because pierogis are delicious! Appreciating that I was able to grow up in a society where my ancestors’ culture was passed down to me, I knew that traveling to one of my ancestral homelands would be sacred and special in its own rite. Though fully immersed into American culture, there must have been a reason these traditions were deemed important enough to teach the children and grandchildren.

Map in hand, I headed towards one of the local churches, a beautiful, yet sparsely decorated brick building surrounded in the shade of trees that protected its sanctity, the figure of Pope John Paul II dutifully looking over the landscape. Wandering along the brick paths and past the nicely tended to flowers I ventured near the edge of the hill. I stopped in my tracks as the Vistula River stared back at me, mighty in its current. It was not that the river or even the scenery was particularly shocking in and of itself. What caught me off guard was how much it reminded me of home, images I rarely thought of since moving abroad. The river, the bank, the greenery and the trees reminded me almost exactly of the Susquehanna River which cuts through the Wyoming Valley, the place that cradled me for 21 years of my life.

I suddenly understood deep down why my family decided to call Northeast Pennsylvania home, it must have reminded them so much of what they left behind, a life to which they knew they would never return. Though I am sure they carried a small sadness in their heart, they always told others if life was so good back home, then why were they in America? Though they made a life for themselves and had descendants who carried on and succeeded in their pursuits, I am certain they could always remember their roots when they felt homesick just by looking at everything that was around them.

Sitting on a nearby bench, the irony of my situation that day hit me like a ton of bricks. I am positive my great grandparents felt just as lost when they landed in America as I did at the bus station mere hours before. While I was only visiting for a day trip, they were attempting to make an entirely new life for themselves. Confused, possibly shy, maybe embarrassed, and definitely unable to speak any English, they would eventually end up in the place they were looking for or maybe was looking for them. They were successfully able to plant new roots that grew and eventually took themselves back in memories and traditions to the starting point where it all began.

As I look back on this episode from two years ago, I cannot help but think about my life journey, from the small valley with a heart that I now believe was handpicked by my ancestors, to currently working with urban refugees in Amman, Jordan. I begin to see small yet consistent patterns. These people I work with from Iraq, Syria, Sudan, and Somalia, carry with them as well stories, memories, photographs, and traditions which they cling to in the hope that when they feel alone and forsaken they can find in them some comfort and a sense of normalcy. We all just want to feel that we belong; that we have a home that we can go to when things get difficult and we need relief. No matter what flow of people goes where, people are the same deep down inside.

No matter whether our life journey has its tranquil or tumultuous times along the way just like the rivers’ waters do, it is the source that is the most important. I journeyed half way across the world to find my source and literally found my personal source of NEPA in a small city in Poland.

Elena Habersky spent the first five years of her life in the Polish enclave of Swoyersville but grew up in the Back Mountain. A 2009 graduate of Dallas High School, she went on to earn a degree in International Studies from The University of Scranton in 2013. For the past three years she has been living in Amman, Jordan teaching and working with urban refugees since receiving a Fulbright scholarship. She has been published in America Magazine, The Jewish Daily Forward, Muftah Magazine, and Family Flavours Magazine writing about urban refugees and culture in Amman.

the cold chokes my lungs-trachea-larynx and I am
Alone. . . Alone
In the backyard naked trees shiver and their limbs
Are too short to wrap around themselves. The howl
Of a forlorn creature rings, unhindered, and an expanse of white

Stretches and

Stretches and

Stretches. . .

Digression of a Dead Bird

The bird: reckless, foolish, diving towards
The window with abandon. This common colored
Creature, a dull mixture of brown and gray as though
God’s paintbrush had been soiled by cheap dyes,
Perhaps realizes its simplicity among an otherwise
Divine world. Suicide:Thump.
The glass does not shatter, the broken
Body shudders in final exhalation,
Whispered secret between us.

Brina Platt spent her childhood in Rhode Island. As a teenager she moved to Wyoming, PA and has continued to live in the northeast region of Pennsylvania. She currently studies at the University of Scranton and majors in English. She is a staff member on the University’s literary magazine, Esprit.

]]>https://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/04/14/confinement-digression-of-a-dead-bird-by-brina-platt/feed/0thegorgeeditorsBeyond the Gates by Tara Lynn Martahttps://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/03/31/beyond-the-gates-by-tara-lynn-marta/
https://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/03/31/beyond-the-gates-by-tara-lynn-marta/#respondThu, 31 Mar 2016 13:22:07 +0000http://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/?p=113Continue reading Beyond the Gates by Tara Lynn Marta]]>The ominous sky did little to deter me from setting out on my daily run. Although I belonged to a state of the art gym, I wasn’t in the mood for an indoor workout surrounded by noisy equipment and weightlifters who felt compelled to vocally illustrate how strenuous their regimen was. The weatherman had promised heavy downpours; looking upward, it was easy to tell that his prediction would be confirmed within the next several hours.

Since my time was limited, I quickly dressed by slipping into a pair of blue jogging pants, a matching shirt, and a runner’s hat. I then put on my favorite new running shoes, grabbed my keys, a half-filled bottle of Evian, and out the door I went. As I scanned the view, I knew the neighborhood simply wouldn’t do for today’s run, so I opted instead to head over to the local cemetery – a place most people tended to avoid. There was a definite fear about this particular cemetery, and the townspeople vowed never to enter it. Rumors had been swirling for years that it was not only haunted, but once you crossed its cast-iron gates, you never returned. I couldn’t care less what others thought and refused to adhere to their foolish superstitions.

Old man Haggerty, a ninety-year-old with neither kith nor kin, was believed to have been the last person buried in the dreaded cemetery. In life Haggerty was an odious, calculating man whom nobody wanted to know; upon death, the only people present at his burial were the priest and the gravedigger. Shortly after Haggerty was laid to rest, neighbors and passersby swore they heard loud screams, along with cries for help coming from beyond the gates. After that, nobody wanted their loved ones placed in a cemetery with such a tarnished reputation.

Upon arrival I began to think about those who insisted that what lived beyond the gates wasn’t human. I laughed at the thought of such paranoia, feeling secure and competent enough to know that ghosts simply do not exist, and that the only time fear could take control of a person is if they are ridiculous enough to succumb to it.

The upkeep of the cemetery dissipated years ago; the grass had grown over nearly every footstone within eyeshot; headstones that had once stood tall were pushed over, some had been shattered. The intimate mausoleums where families were enclosed bore cracks in the stained-glass windows. It was clear that the entire cemetery had been desecrated.

As I reached to open one of the gates, I took notice of the securely fastened latch. “Wonderful,” I thought. “Now how do I get in?” With no other signs of entry, I had to improvise. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I wasn’t above using my athletic abilities to jump the fence, so I grabbed hold of the robust gates and hoisted myself up and over, tearing the skin on my leg. Some droplets of blood fell upon the ground leaving a small trail. As I stopped and tended to my wound, I silently prayed that none of the neighbors would take notice; I wanted to eschew any questions that would undoubtedly follow should a spectator catch sight of me in the cemetery from hell.

“This place is rather eerie,” I mumbled to myself as I extended my right leg onto a tree stump and began to stretch. The day’s dismal appearance certainly didn’t help matters, and the threat of rain still loomed overhead causing darkness where light should have been. I began my run nonetheless trying to ignore the melancholy ambiance that surrounded me. The silence was deafening; the only audible sound was that of my heartbeat racing to keep up with me as I sprinted along the gravel road.

I was depleted of breath after only fifteen minutes, so I stopped to rest allowing the air to replenish my lungs. I took a sip of my Evian and noticed the dates etched on the gravestones in front and in back of me; some dated as far back as the nineteenth century. I read the names of the deceased, quietly ruminating the lives each one had lived. Every individual has a personal narrative, each differing in context but akin in terms of how much goes into a life. Death is a funny thing when you truly think about it. We go through years of trials and tribulations, accomplishments and disappointments, relationships filled with love and hate. We spend countless hours trying to leave a thumbprint, and in the end, none of it even matters. The world presses on while our physicality rots beneath the earthly soil, and the only remnants of our existence become reduced to a name and date carved on a cold slab of stone.

I threw my empty water bottle into a nearby garbage bin and resumed my run. It was then that I heard it – the faint sound of a moan coming from some unknown place. I spun myself around like a dog chasing its tail, trying to determine the direction the sound was coming from, but it was no use; the noise was impossible to place, so I chose to ignore it. Just as I started to pick up speed, I heard it again – only this time louder – and instead of being a faint moan, it became a haunting shrill. I don’t scare easily, yet I could feel the hairs on my arm beginning to stand on end. I was frozen in the moment; my feet were like lead, immobile just when I needed them most.

I started to run, and as I rounded a corner nearly missing a head-on collision with an oak tree, I tripped. When I finally got my bearings, I felt a grip on my sneaker; something was pulling at me. “This isn’t happening,” I told myself. The ravens, occupying a branch in the tree above, began to cackle – laughing at the simpleton panicking below. I was becoming paranoid in thought, so I screamed. “Somebody help me!”

“Are you okay?” In all the chaos, I failed to notice anyone approaching me, yet there she stood. I lifted my head and saw a woman reaching to help me to my feet. I grabbed hold of her hand, which was cold and clammy to the touch, and was finally able to stand again. “Your foot was caught in a sinkhole,” the woman informed me. “I hope you weren’t too frightened?” Forget frightened, I was humiliated by my childish behavior and promptly apologized for the scene I had caused.

I glanced at this unknown stranger, whose altruistic gestures were most welcomed during my unfortunate confusion. I suddenly noticed her physical attributes: She was tall in stature, at least 5 ft 8; her long jet black hair fell upon her shoulders; her eyes were deep and dark, almost hidden within their sockets, and at times she had a seemingly distant glare as if her attention was needed elsewhere. Her skin was pure ivory, matching the dress she had on. I was lost in thought staring at this unusual creature. She broke my concentration by asking if I was okay.

“I’m fine,” I answered, completely unaware of my trance. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing walking around the cemetery?”

She paused briefly before answering. “I was on my way to an anniversary.” I had a smirk on my face and she took notice at once. “What’s funny?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing – everything. The whole town is convinced that this place is haunted, and there are rumors that no living soul dares to stir on such unholy grounds.” I began to chuckle, slightly.

The woman seemed unimpressed by my outburst of humor. “Yet here you are,” she said in a monotone voice. “Why do you come if you were warned to evade such a place?”

I became abashed by my lack of respect, as it was obvious this lady, whoever she may be, felt slighted by my remarks. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope I didn’t sound insulting. Do you have loved ones buried here?”

The woman smiled. “Yes, my family is here. We all are.”

She began walking at once, and I followed not far behind. I hadn’t realized what she said until that very moment. She said ‘we’ when referring to her family being buried here. I couldn’t make heads or tails of her comment, so I encouraged her to explain, to which she held up her hand signaling me not to press the issue. I unwillingly abided – for the time being.

Why I felt it necessary to trail her every move, I did not know. Yet there I was following her around the cemetery as if being guided by some unexplained force. Neither of us spoke; we strolled around the headstones and carefully avoided the footstones. When I could no longer endure the quietude, I asked: “Didn’t you say you were on your way to an anniversary?”

“Yes,” she answered. “The anniversary is today, April 29th. My, how time does take flight.”

Once again I was baffled by her statement. I could not construe a single word of what she said, and I no longer cared to try. The entire situation started to bring me discomfort, so I informed the woman that it was getting late and I really should be getting home.

She stopped in her tracks, looked straight into my eyes with an assuming glare and said, “You are home.”

Her stunning declaration left me speechless. I studied her expression, my eyes questioning her audacious remark. “What are you talking about?” I responded. “This isn’t a joke; I really have to get home.”

At that moment, the woman began to laugh uncontrollably, which only added to her already strange demeanor. “Did you know a young girl died in this cemetery many years ago?”

I didn’t know nor care; I had no interest in hearing anything this lady had to say. I just wanted to get safely back to my apartment and put this whole episode behind me. Yet the woman persisted in sharing her story with me, as if I were somehow obliged to listen.

“It happened on this very day in 1935. Her boyfriend insisted that she follow him here; however hesitant she may have been, she was docile and dutifully obeyed. He said they were just going for a walk, but once they arrived, his mercurial temperament gave the impression that something wasn’t right; he wasn’t right. Without warning he lunged at her throat, dragging her to the ground and strangling her lifeless.”

I was in shock; what a horrible way for anyone to die. The story only added to the creepiness of the cemetery. “What happened to him? Was he ever caught?”

Her mood became dejected. “Nobody believed him capable of committing such a horrendous act. He was devoted to her, as far as anyone else was concerned. He even had an alibi, a friend who was willing to lie about his whereabouts. She died in this horrible place frightened and alone. Her family buried her over by that oak tree.”

“There’s no justice in this world,” I muttered.

“Oh, there’s a certain justice which cannot be codified by law. He got what he deserved many years later after he returned seeking gratification for his deplorable act, showing no compunction for what he had done. Like her, he never left this cemetery again. Oh, he ran, trying desperately to find an escape, but there was no way out. He screamed for help, but no one heard; no one cared because by that time, everyone knew that anyone who entered this place would spend eternity here.”

I shouldn’t have felt the slightest sliver of fear; she looked harmless enough, yet I couldn’t be completely convinced that she was as innocent as she seemed. The smile on her face turned to an icy grin, and there was a glimmer in her eyes that cautioned me to run. I started to back away slowly. She reached out her hand cautioning me not to be afraid.

“Stay,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me here alone. It’s not safe for a girl to be left in a cemetery all alone.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, but as I already told you, I need to get home.”

“And as I told you, you are home. There is no escape once you go beyond the gates.”

I didn’t wait to hear anything further before running expeditiously, gasping for breaths in the process. And just when I thought I was in the clear, my foot hit another blasted sinkhole, sending me to my knees, and cleaving my arm as it brushed against the edge of a gravestone. As I lifted myself off the ground, I could see the woman walking towards me, pointing at the stone where fresh blood now lay.

“You see,” she began. “I never left this place, nor shall you.”

That’s when I realized that the grave I was standing over was hers. Her physical body now took the form of a shadowy light, an outlined silhouette surrounded by what looked to be fog. I turned suddenly, placing my hand over my mouth in utter disbelief. “My God,” I said. “It was you; you’re the girl who was murdered by her boyfriend.”

“Indeed,” she responded. “But rest easy, my dear. He got what he had coming to him. I waited patiently for his return. I knew one day he’d come back. His old, withered body finally found its way to the place he would never again leave. He may have been loved in his younger years, but that was not so once he grew into an old, cantankerous man whom nobody wished to associate.”

I gasped – Old man Haggerty. He was the boyfriend who took the life of this girl so many years before. It was his screams and moans heard throughout this cemetery, carried away by the wind, echoing through the trees forevermore.

I was terrified to the extent where I could no longer move. It became obvious that I was destined to remain a part of this perpetual horror. It was the revenge of a woman who never made peace with the fact that her life ended before its time, and she wouldn’t allow anyone else to leave her side ever again. I had been warned not to come to this cemetery, a warning I chose to disregard. And now I, too, would be nothing more than a shadowy figure, a voice crying in the still of night for someone to rescue me, but knowing all too well that none ever would because no one dared go beyond the gates.

Tara Lynn Marta, originally from Brooklyn, New York, moved to Pennsylvania at the age of nine and currently resides in Scranton. She is a recent graduate of The Pennsylvania State University and holds a B.A. in English. She will be attending Wilkes University in June for the graduate program in Creative Writing. Although her main genre of writing is fiction, she enjoys working on essays as well. She also has an avid interest in journalism and wrote for the campus newspaper while in college.

Sure, there’s the stink from cooking, but we will
sweeten the air with Rilke, your California
voice mingling with my east-coast tongue.

Andrew Milewski spent most of his life in Lackawanna. He also spent two years in South Korea, where he rode in crowded subways to cultural lectures and swing dance socials. He taught English to small children there, too. He is co-editor of The Gorge. He had an idea to make a blog of travel poems (though that has yet to manifest), & he was involved with arts and literature at The University of Scranton.

Frank Caputo grew up in Moscow, Pennsylvania and graduated from North Pocono High School in 2009. He frequently walked and then biked and then finally drove aimless all over the county, and that probably has something to do with the fact that he writes poetry. He’s currently living in Baltimore and working on an M.F.A. in Creative Writing and Publishing Arts at the University of Baltimore, and still spends copious amounts of time walking aimlessly.

Alyssa Sunseri is from Factoryville, PA. She is currently working as a tattoo apprentice in Wind Gap, PA. Her two cats, Scav and Sam, are the only things that keep her grounded at her drawing table.

]]>https://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/26/tolkiens-moon-by-alyssa-sunseri/feed/0thegorgeeditorsIMG_2373Now accepting submissionshttps://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/21/now-accepting-submissions/
Sun, 21 Feb 2016 11:52:31 +0000http://thegorgeblog.wordpress.com/?p=42Continue reading Now accepting submissions]]>The Gorge publishes original writing and art from local creatives every other Thursday. Good luck taking the plunge!

We are currently accepting all genres of writing (fiction, poetry, nonfiction, & drama) as well as all forms of visual art (photography, painting, sketches, etc.). We also welcome commentary on current events.

If you would like your piece to be considered, please email thegorge@mail.com. Include your work as an attachment, & please include a short bio (~5-10 sentences), which includes where you live or lived specifically. We plan to get back to people as soon as possible, and we will update this page with specific information on waiting times as we begin to receive submissions.